


I Know That You Want to Get Your Thing Off

by lulabo



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lulabo/pseuds/lulabo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a text. And a pretty fantastic pair of ta tas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know That You Want to Get Your Thing Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellolamppost17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellolamppost17/gifts).



> thanks to my betas, Meg and Carrie, for their reassurance; and happy Yuletide to hellolampost (whatcha knowin'), I hope you enjoy it!

It starts with a text.

(Technically, actually, it starts with Hood Night, but a lot of Hood Night is super fuzzy thanks to  
the entire bottle of Boone’s Farm she drank—Wild Raspberry Boone’s, which at least is a step above Raspberry Hard Lemonade, because hard lemonade is a farce as far as she’s concerned.—followed, as Beca will not stop pointing out, by a parade of red Solo cups of foamy keg beer followed by several shots of bottom shelf tequila. But given the hangover she has, she’s unconvinced that the wine wasn’t laced with the blood of the aca-bitches that preceded the newest class of Bellas. Beca won’t respond to this mostly because she’s violently against using aca as a prefix to anything, and because Beca is sorta super uptight.)

The thing is, college is the best time—maybe the last time—to start over, to reinvent yourself. And if it is, if you make up your mind that you can be anyone you want to be, Amy wants to be someone who doesn’t hang out with guys like Bumper. So it’s annoying when he texts her during her second cup of terrible dining hall coffee and she has to chuckle, just a little, even if she’s not exactly sure how Bumper’s number ended up in her phone nor how he got hers. But the text—it makes her chuckle, just a little bit.

_i don’t just make sweet music with my mouth_

It’s not even that it’s that clever (because honestly, right?). It’s that he thinks it’s going to work.  
Because she has no doubt that he thinks this is going to work. She slides her phone across the table to Beca, who groans when she reads it.

“How did he get your number, anyway?”

Amy spreads her hands. “Beats me.”

Which is when Jesse appears—literally appears like he’s been hiding under the table this whole  
time—at Beca’s elbow with a tray loaded with about four meals’ worth of food. _Boys._

“How did who get your number?” he asks.

“No, really,” Beca says, “please join us. We insist.”

He grins. “Who got your number, Amy?”

“Bumper,” she says. “I can’t remember giving it to him, though.”

“She can’t remember how she ended up in my bed, either,” Beca says. “It’s the tequila, Fat Amy, it erases the whiteboard of your mind.”

Jesse looks delighted at this information. “In your bed?”

Beca elbows him. “Don’t be a perv. You probably don’t remember half of what happened last night either.”

_i’ve been told i’ve got quite the agile tongue_

Beca leans over when she hears Amy’s phone beep. “Seriously?” she says.

_my moves aren’t just for the dance floor_

Jesse shakes his head. “Yeah, these are truly terrible.” He takes a huge bite of pancake and gestures between the two girls with his fork. “Get back to the ‘woke up in your bed’ thing.”

“Head to toe, dork,” Beca says. “I need more coffee. Are you going to answer him?”

**surprised you can sing at all with yr head so far up yr ass**

Amy puts her phone in her pocket. “Just did.”

Jesse clears up the whole number exchange thing, which he claims to have witnessed shortly after Amy did her first keg stand of the night. Bumper, he says, made a comment about Amy being able to really open her throat and let that beer slide down—Jesse apologizes about three times telling this story and keeps cutting his eyes at Beca like he’s afraid even remembering this story will offend her with its grossness—and Amy took that as a challenge of some kind. Which led to the shots, another keg stand, and Amy telling Bumper that if he felt like he could really handle what she was packing he’d have to prove it. And then they’d traded phones.

¶¶¶

It’s not long after Hood Night that she notices Bumper appearing pretty much everywhere on campus where she has to be. And it starts turning into weird games of chicken where they walk straight up to each other until they’re literally nose to nose. She’s seen his pores up so close she could give his dermatologist notes. She doesn’t ever want to give and get out of his path—it seems like it would be giving him the upper hand, that she would go out of her way not to come face to face with him—but she’s also really not sure what the point of these tête-à-têtes are since it tends to be pretty much banal small talk.

“Amy,” he says.

“Bump,” she says, popping her p.

“Nice day.”

“Beautiful.”

“Where you headed?”

“Chem lab.”

He smiles. “I enjoy… chemistry.” He’s totally angling for a look down her top as he says this. Not that she blames him because, really.

“I’m glad you approve of my course schedule,” she says. “But you need to get out of my way now before I’m late. For my chemistry experiments.” She gives him a little extra sashay as she walks away, because she knows from experience that he’s watching her go.

¶¶¶

So they lose the riff-off on a (probably bogus) technicality—even though Aubrey’s shrieking like a bad window, they did have the Treblemakers eating out of the palms of their hands when Beca let loose with the Blackstreet/Dre. It’s sort of beautiful, how into Beca’s singing Jesse gets, but Amy’s also fully aware Bumper’s giving her a side eye intended to burn the pants of her bottom. Amy leaves with the other Bellas, but it’s not long before her phone chimes in her pocket.

_u r a giant cream puff and all i want is 1 bite_

She shows Beca, laughing, and Beca covers her mouth with her hands as she tries to decide how to react. “Is that gross, or is it flattering?” she asks. “Seriously, I can’t tell.”

Amy gestures up and down her own body. “I am hypnotic. Baby got back and all that.”

Beca elbows her. “You got me sprung and I don’t care who sees,” she laughs.

She waits a few hours to text him back.

**call me cream puff again and i’ll kick your balls to the back of your throat**

She wasn’t kidding when she said she’d nail that Cabbage Patch Kid. It’s not like knocking a microphone against her chest and insulting her to her face whenever the opportunity presents itself is endearing. She doesn’t see or hear from him for a couple of days, but when she does, it’s another nose-to-nose adventure on the quad. They neither speak for a moment.

“So why do they call you Bumper?” she asks.

“’Cause I make ladies’ headboards bump bump bump against the wall,” he says. He does this _thing_ with his hips as he says this, jumping a fraction of an inch even closer so that he’s practically standing on her toes. She peers over his head, which is easy given that she’s got at least an inch on him.

“That,” she says flatly, “is not a good move for you.” And with that she sidesteps him and continues on her way to Intro to Statistics. 

(Later, over nachos, Jesse nearly chokes on an olive when she tells them this, making Beca snort when he says he’s pretty sure Bumper’s mainly into self-bumping.)

The amount of texts he sends her during the week before Regionals is distracting. She’d only sorta started it after seeing him in the library one evening and been unable to concentrate on her lab report.

**stop staring at my tits**

_i can’t_

_your tits are my destiny_

_i just wanna mash my face in there and go to town_

_and by town i mean get my face all up in them titties_

_i wanna get rug burn from motorboating those things_

_i wanna die between your tits with my cock in your hand_

_it would be a noble death_

_and a happy one_

**the day my hand meets your cock is the day you stand over my cold dead corpse**

_worth it_

And it goes on like this, and on and on, Bumper swinging between waxing poetic about her breasts ( _i wanna go to sleep on those dirty pillows and wake up awash in your morning dew_ —like what that even means she’s not going to waste her time on because it seems filthy and old-fashioned at the same time) and aggressive in expressing how very much he just wants to get his hands on them. One moment with her boobs seems to be his sole goal in life—besides winning Regionals, as a good portion of his communiques start with “after we beat your droopy asses in competition”—to the point where she can’t even look at her own body without thinking about Bumper. It’s not entirely pleasant but she’s also not sure she hates it. It’s been a while since anyone’s been this enthusiastic about any single part of her body.

The thing about being the best singer in Tasmania (with teeth) is that a lot of dogs have tried to bark up her tree. She’d spent her high school years bouncing between different boyfriends who were variously inattentive, rude, impatient, bored, and boring once they’d managed either to stick their tongues down her throat or their hands down her pants, depending on how generous she was feeling at the time. The morning after one of her last formals when one boy dropped her off and another showed up an hour later with breakfast for her and an invitation to the beach, her mother had remarked that others would spend their whole lives trying to bottle up Patricia’s particular allure and never succeed. Given that her mom’s on her third husband and still has the tits and ass of a 21-year-old, it seems to Fat Amy that she knows something about allure.

¶¶¶

It’s not like she was intending to get Beca arrested, or anything, but between crushing it at competition, Bumper’s general aura around her and the other Bellas, and the over-the-hill acafellas’ existence, kicking that guy in the balls is almost as satisfying as her solo. Like singing, her toes making contact with someone else’s junk feels right and good and pure right down to her marrow. So she’s riding on that high when Bumper catches her by the wrist in the hall and tells her he’ll ride her home (his words) and help her escape the popo. How they end up in a supply closet in a clinch is not exactly clear, but her shirt’s still open from her solo and Bumper’s got his hands against her skin and her bra unclasped before she can even really register what’s happening. So she considers it all for a moment, and she’s okay with it when he starts kissing her and mumbling how she has a truly miraculous pair of tits, the greatest he’s ever seen, and if he’s to be believed, Bumper has seen _a lot_ of tits.

(She’s inclined to disbelief on this matter, since Bumper’s kissing is rather inexpert—more enthusiastic and persistent than effective. It’s much better when he starts in on her neck, kissing and sucking and biting and at least she’ll have a reason to wear that Bella neckerchief tomorrow.)

He tries to navigate her hands south of his belt buckle, and she complies only insofar as she digs her nails into his junk and rears back. “That move is not in play, Bumper,” she tells him. And he shrugs and hunkers down to make good on some of his threats about what he wants to do with his face between her boobs. Never has a boy ever been so enthusiastic about or so completely lost to the world in her breasts before—honestly, it just makes her laugh. 

“‘s funny?” he asks, barely looking up at her.

“I just like it when people have a good time,” she says.

¶¶¶

In the weeks leading up to the semi-finals, there’s a lot less texting and a lot more _stuff_ —sneaking deep into the stacks at the library with Bumper trailing just behind her, waiting for a dark corner and his moment to get his hands up her shirt again. She’s clear about the boundaries with him—he can dry hump the shit out of whatever he wants, but she keeps her hands off his and nothing below the waist is explorable territory for him. It’s funny, more than anything, his unflagging enthusiasm for her person, and even if she wishes every now and then they could just be _nicer_ to each other, it’s also kind of refreshing to tell a guy that she won’t hesitate to rip his testicles out through his nose (even if it’s not anatomically possible) and have both of them know she _means_ it. He doesn’t get much better at kissing but she figures maybe American boys just do it differently and she’s got to get used it if she wants to enjoy the next four years of her life. It’s simultaneously a depressing and inspiring thought—so many Americans with their unschooled tongues are still so many Americans to make out with.

The other thing she’s super clear with him about is that if anyone ever finds out that she’s given him a some-access pass to her person, she will not hesitate to give him a permanent falsetto as well, because while bumping with Bumper is a moderate amount of fun, it’s not worth losing her spot in the Bellas over. As much as she’s tired of singing their medley of beautifully mediocre eighties plus “Turn the Beat Around,” hanging with the Bellas between rehearsals and bitching _at_ rehearsals and sending texts about Aubrey’s potential institutionalization is the best part of being at Barden. They’re weird and dysfunctional and they drive each other crazy but they sing and dance in unison and that means something in the long run. Her affection for the group and their whole endeavor is what makes her volunteer to drive to semi-finals.

¶¶¶

It’s not the first time that a guy has thrown food at her (food fights were at one point in her life an important part of her courting rituals) but never at such high speeds and for real she has to wonder if she’s been shot before she catches sight of the boys’ bus rolling past. It feels like her chest has exploded, not the burrito bomb, like her entire upper body is caving into her collarbone, like her entire torso is a stubbed toe. _Fucking Bumper,_ she thinks. It’s not heartbreaking—it’s more like heart- _burning_ that he could do this to her. To her _magnificent titties_ , which he’s _named,_ for acasakes. For real, she is going to _end_ that little stick of butter.

After he gives her a lift to semi-finals, that is. He laughs when she calls—laughs for a really, really long time. To the point of wheezing. She flicks the bit of burrito shrapnel from her neck and bellows into the phone that she will tell the entire world that his testicles have started to retreat back into his body if he does not promptly turn his fucking bus around and pick up her and all her friends. 

“I will stick my foot so far up your ass that I will tickle the inside of your skull with my toes before I spear your eyeballs with my toenails, you neck-sucking troll.”

“Sweet talk me all you want—”

“I swear to God, Bumper—” She pauses, because offering her boobs on a platter to this kid is the most nauseating thing she can think of post-burrito-bombing, but if they don’t make it to the competition, it’s on her and she doesn’t want to let her team down. “If you ever want to get your hands within groping distance of my body you will do this for me.”

She can hear them already turning around, and Bumper’s self-satisfied smirk when they arrived sends her into a thirty second rage blackout. She ends up next to him on the ride there, trying (discreetly) to keep his hand off her thigh, off the small of her back. They have a surreptitious conversation through the sides of their mouths, Amy telling Bumper that he should eat shit and die for what he did and him trying to tell her that it was all in fun and competition and showing off for his boys, which is still super gross and nothing she really feels inclined to forgive him for. When they get to the venue, he nods his head at her, indicating she should hang back for a minute.

“Amy—Fat Amy, beautiful breasted Fat Amy—I really do like hanging out with you, I like hooking up with you in the library, I fucking _love_ your silky soft ta tas, I am sorry that I threw Mexican food at you with the intent of sidelining you from competition,” he says. He takes her hands and squeezes them. “Please do not deny me the privilege of your company because I’m incapable of subjugating my baser instincts to my need for total vocal domination.”

She narrows her eyes. “Whatever, Bumper. You’ll get yours eventually.”

And then he has the nerve to wink. “I sure hope so.”

¶¶¶

After everything—after the vomiting and the fighting and the total 48-hour crush to learn a new, super complicated routine—it feels worth it. She really did join the Bellas to hang out with a bunch of awesome chicks. She came to college to be someone new. Not to hang out with guys like Bumper, not to be a girl like Patricia who needed too much male attention and too much from guys who never gave her anything at all. She came to Barden to find a group of people with fat hearts who like her for who she is. Not just for her boobs and her awesome singing abilities. So she only feels a little bit bad for what she did. Like 12% bad out of 100% sure it’s not the worst thing that will ever happen to him.

Still. She has to ask Beca if she thinks impersonating an assistant to John Mayer and sending Bumper an invitation to sing in LA would lose them their ICCA trophy. Beca says nothing for a minute, just gapes at her with her jaw hanging open like it’s been unhinged.

“Probably better not to find out,” she says. “We would have kicked their asses anyway, Bumper or not.”

Amy nods. “Some other guy is going to deserve full access to my bra someday, but until then at least I’ve got you guys.”

Beca links her arm through Amy’s and leads her towards rehearsal. “Clear eyes, fat hearts, Amy.”

“No diggity.”


End file.
